Author: Sarah Bearup-Neal

Leelanau County painter Douglas Racich, 64, divides his painting time between watercolor and egg tempera, an ancient, slow-moving medium made of ingredients that sound like the beginning of a cake recipe. The world outside Racich’s studio moves quickly. He does not. He depicts still, quiet subjects. Racich’s paintings are about Northern Michigan — to which he, his wife Michelle and three children moved in 1998 from Illinois. He hopes they’ll cause people to stop, look, and “slow down.”  

This interview was conducted in February 2025 by Sarah Bearup-Neal, GAAC Gallery Manager, and edited for clarity.

Pictured: Douglas Racich

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Describe the medium in which you work. What is your work?

It’s 50/50: watercolor and egg tempera.

What is egg tempera?

It’s egg yolk and water. That’s the basic recipe [into which] you’re adding pigment. The amount of pigment you add can make it appear more or less translucent. In general, it leaves an opaque surface when compared to oil and acrylic. Watercolor has a matte appearance.

Do you prepare your own egg tempera paints?

I do. I think most artists who are working in that medium do. It’s tricky. Some pigments mix easily. Others are hydrophobic, and don’t do what you want them to do.

Do you raise chickens?

I don’t. I do have a CSA membership [community supported agriculture] from Nine Bean Rows down the road. Eggs come with the CSA [box]. I don’t eat eggs. I just eat plant-based foods.

Egg tempera is an ancient medium. It’s a niche medium. The world is full of readymade paints. So: 1.) What was it that sparked your interest in painting in egg tempera?; and 2.) How did you learn?

Initially, as a kid, I’d do little sketches here and there — I never knew anyone who was a real artist. Right after the birth of our first child, my wife got me a set of watercolor paints, and I said, That’s really nice. I threw them in a drawer, and didn’t touch them for a number of years. I finally got them out and started painting in watercolor, which I did for two or three years. As I got the hang of it — I had no formal training in art, so this is all just trial and error — I started picking up books at the library, and started reading about artists, and this gets to the question of egg tempera. I saw a book about Andrew Wyeth, and that was it. I knew I needed to figure this [egg tempera painting] out.

If you could zero in on the thing that Wyeth’s paintings made you want to learn how to paint in egg tempera, what would that be?

We lived in Illinois, outside of Chicago, before we moved here [to Leelanau County] — it was a non-suburban setting that made me think of where Wyeth lived [in Chadds Ford, Pennsylvania]. I think I was drawn not only to his subject matter, but to the light. When he set up paintings, they weren’t like the standard landscape, the standard portrait. They were just a little bit different. There’s a great one he did of his neighbor Karl. I love that piece.

How did you learn to prepare your paints?

Well, pre-internet: the library. I looked up other artists beside Wyeth. Robert Vickrey was a big egg tempera painter, and some of his books had nice details about how he put those mixtures together, and the processes he used. In the egg tempera field, there are different ways people mix their paints. I take the egg yolk and water mixture, put it in a little container, put in the color, and mix it up. You can vary the ratio of water to egg, but generally it’s 50/50. Mostly, it has been trial and error figuring out the basic formula. I just kept working on [the formula] until I felt comfortable. In this age, people like fast. With acrylic paint, you can just whip out a painting. You can’t do that with tempera. You’ve got to be patient.

There’s a stillness to your paintings. They’re quiet.

I don’t have a good feeling for figure work and people. I’m not confident in my drawing ability, which has led me to a lot of my landscapes, to the outbuildings, and the still lives I do. They may seem quiet because they’re about non-moving things.

What other subjects are in your line of vision?

I love gardening. I love growing squash, so I’ve done multiple squash paintings. And, I like flowers, too. I’m surrounded by cherry orchards on one side of our property, and apple orchards on the other; I’ve done a lot of pieces about those. There’s no shortage of subject matter. I grew up on a farm. It was my uncle’s farm [southwest of Chicago], and my parents had a little house next door to it. It’s how I grew up. It’s what I love.

How has the lack of formal, visual art training affected or advanced or put hurdles in the way of your practice?

I don’t know that it has had any impact whatsoever. I have on occasion heard remarks from people who’ve gone to art school about “real artists” versus “not-real artists,” and I’m not sure what that is. I feel like I’ve put in the 10,000 hours.

[NOTE:  The “10,000-hour rule,” popularized by Malcolm Gladwell in his book “Outliers,” suggests that it takes approximately 10,000 hours of deliberate practice to achieve mastery in a particular field.]

I don’t know why that gets on my nerves. My self-training hasn’t affected anything. There hasn’t ever been a problem getting into galleries, exhibiting.

How have you taught yourself?

Looking up stuff. If the internet had been around when I first started painting, it would have been fantastic. I looked at a lot of print material. Some of the big art magazines back then had wonderful articles showing how people made their work, their technique. Besides looking things up, I kept on trying to do it. Tempera can be frustrating. You have to be careful, and patient. You can work for weeks on a piece and not like it. I had a piece, a still life with cherries. It was almost too simple, and I didn’t like it. I ended up cleaning out another area [on the board] above the cherries, and painted another cherry above them. I laid in all the shadows so it appeared that the cherry was hanging in mid-air. I called it The Rapture. But that’s the nice thing with tempera. You can go back. I’ve completely sanded down a board, and started all over again. You do get a second chance, but it’s tough after you’ve spent all those hours.

Describe your studio/workspace.

I have three children, and we live in a very small farmhouse. Early on, we had a couple of upstairs bedrooms that weren’t being used. That was my studio. Once I got the [studio] finished out here, the sense of space was overwhelming. I don’t think it’s that big, but compared to being in a little bedroom all the time … Paintings stacked on top of paintings: It felt very claustrophobic. I’ve never done big paintings, bigger than the standard watercolor sheet [2’ x 3’].

[NOTE: Doug’s studio is approximately 350 square feet. It is the front portion of an old barn on his property. The barn was constructed in the 1870s.]

What prompts the beginning of a project or composition?

The end of the painting I’m working on. There’s that. There’s the need to push stuff out for galleries. In general, when I think I’m getting to the end of a piece, I’ll think about what I want to do next. If I’ve been working on a watercolor that has taken forever to finish, I think, I’ve got to switch to tempera. As far as subject matter? I do a lot of photography. If I’m out on a hike or on a road trip, I’ll take pictures of things that interest me, or will be reference material. In my head, I can keep thinking about a piece I’d like to paint, and it could be years. At some point it’s: OK, it’s time to make this. Then there are other times, bringing vegetables out of the garden, I’ll think, This is a great squash, and, boom: I’ll want to paint that right away. There’s no rhyme or reason to it. It organically happens.

How many galleries represent your work?

It has taken a hit. When I was living south of Chicago, I had two or three in the city. Then, up here, I was showing in as many as four. Right now, I’m down to one gallery in Elk Rapids [Mullaly’s 128 Gallery].

Generally speaking: Are the subjects you paint dictated by your desires and interests? Or, knowing the market for a certain gallery, do you adjust what you make so it’s a better fit?

When I was showing at [the now closed] Main Street gallery I did find myself leaning toward more local images: the Sleeping Bear Dunes, historic buildings. I still love those things, but the still lifes are pretty universal, and it wouldn’t matter where they were made. I tend to now try to find subjects that would work anywhere. Many of the buildings from the Sleeping Bear Dunes area, people outside of this region wouldn’t know where the buildings were. They’d just think it was a fun picture of a barn or old stone building. I have a piece in the Dennos [Northwest Michigan Regional Juried Exhibition] right now. It’s simple: Just a big field of grass with a couple of oak trees in the background. It’s a scene from Ashland, Oregon. I’ve had a couple of people ask me where this was in the Dunes? It has that open feeling to it you [can experience during a hike in the Dunes].

What’s your favorite tool?

My mixing trays [plastic and ceramic]. Especially with watercolor and tempera, I’m constantly mixing the different colors, and I can use the same trays for both media. I love seeing the paints laid out, I love seeing the different colors, and knowing what I’ve got to do: They’re there, but I’ve got to get to work

Do you use a sketchbook? Work journal? What tool do you use to make notes and record thoughts about your work?

I don’t. If I do anything, it’s about color combinations I’ve used on certain pieces. Sometimes I’ll find myself doing three or four small still lives at the same times. I might make notes on what colors I was using to make a particular mix if I have to recreate the color I was using. Mostly, it’s technical stuff.

When did you commit to working with serious intent? What were the circumstances?

I had a friend, Joan, who was an elementary art teacher, and also worked as an art agent helping to place artists’ works in galleries. [In the mid-1990s] she saw my work, and was instrumental in me starting to show a lot in the Chicago area. She vacationed up here, and got me in a gallery in Charlevoix. She said, You’ve got to go up there. I said, It’s like Alaska. Why would I want to go to Northern Michigan? She told me I had no idea. We eventually visited. She was responsible for me thinking about painting as real work. Until then, my painting took place on weekends and after work.

You had a day job.

I was a dentist. It wasn’t a calling. A number of things came together that made me realize I didn’t want to keep on doing that. At that point, I was also starting to sell more art. We’d finally made our way up here, after all the poking and prodding from Joan, so we wanted to move up here. And, that’s what we did. I painted full-time for four or five years after we moved up here. At this point, my kids are getting into high school and college age, so I took a job [outside the home] for a biological testing firm, and they had a laboratory in Traverse City. That took care of the bills, but I finally let go of that. The painting never stopped. Even during that time, I still had four galleries I was showing it. It was hard. Now I’m back to just-art. Nowadays, with social media, [the art business] is a different thing. I used to just rely on the galleries to do most of the work. Now, I try to get a handle on social media.

What role does social media play in your practice?

I’m a big Instagram-er. I don’t look at Facebook anymore. I love Instagram. I love seeing what other artists do. I think social media is essential now. What can it hurt to just throw stuff out there.

What’s the visual artist’s role in the world?

To get people to slow down a minute or two in their lives. Just to sit there and focus on something for a minute: stop and look. People are so busy. I don’t think people spend a lot of time just being quiet. It’s hard, the way society is — with the internet, with phones, with work. People are just constantly moving. I hope that people can have a little, quiet moment when they are looking at art. A little sense of calm and quiet.

We live in a world where people are bombarded by images. There’s no dearth of visuals to look at. But looking at something that’s hanging on the gallery wall is different than looking at something on a screen. I think it’s hard to get people to move away from the abstraction of their phones, and their screens, and all the millions of images they see every day, to directly experience something in a gallery wall, and consider it quietly.

I’ve hung my work in art walks, for instance. People will go through the different shops displaying art, and 85 percent of the people just want to get their books stamped so they could put it in the prize raffle at the end of the walk. They just flew by. I do think museums and galleries, since there’s nothing else in there but the art, helps people to slow down a little bit. That’s the drawback of social media, trying to capture an image on a little screen. Does the viewer even understand the detail? It’s hard to capture.

Who has had the greatest, and most lasting influence on your practice?

My wife, because of all the support that has allowed me to do this. From an artistic standpoint, it was, initially, Andrew Wyeth. That was the thing that made me want to paint, in the style I wanted to paint. I also love the comments of other artists, friends who are visiting, just chatting about what they’re doing, what I’m doing.

Where or to whom do you go when you need honest feedback about your work?

Again, my wife, Michelle. She’ll be very honest with me. It’s nice having grown-up children now: one who paints all the time, the other had a gallery.

What role does exhibiting play in your practice?

If you want to make money, the work has got to be out there. I like getting feedback from the gallery owners, whether it’s good or bad. I like trying to participate in local shows — it gets the public together to support the arts.

How do you feed and nurture your creativity?

Number 1: Getting outside, since I tend to paint what’s around me. Hiking, biking, kayaking, a little ride in the car — that nurtures it. I’m not specifically looking for things. I just happen upon them. I do love galleries. Looking at other peoples’ work is empowering.

What drives your impulse to make?

I think about that sometimes from a biological, evolutionary standpoint. It’s just something that’s in me.

If you’re not painting, do you get the shakes?

The summertime gets busy. The garden. The yard. It’s warm out, and I do love being outside, but I do think I need to get back working in the studio. So, yeah. There’s a little something that’s ticking away inside me.

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Read more about Douglas Racich here.

Sarah Bearup-Neal develops and curates Glen Arbor Arts Center exhibitions. She maintains a studio practice focused on fiber and collage.

Jil Johnson, 63, is an outsider artist: no formal training, works in a naive style, wants to make beautiful things by hand. She lives in Traverse City. She wants “to live to the fullest, and that means being authentic, and that means knowing who you are.” She does.

This interview was conducted in December 2024 by Sarah Bearup-Neal, GAAC Gallery Manager, and edited for clarity.

Pictured: Jil Johnson

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Describe your work.

Technically, I’m an outsider artist, that is: somebody who has no [formal] training.

You work in 3D, sculptural forms.

Not always, but it seems to be what I’m currently doing. Sometimes I’ll make a painting. Sometimes it’s sewing. Sometimes it’s fiber. There’s not one answer, but for the most part it’s 3D work that involves some woodworking; there’s always paint involved.

Outsider art — and I looked to Wikipedia for this — is art “made by self-taught individuals who are untrained and untutored in the traditional arts with typically little or no contact with the conventions of the art worlds.” What parts of this definition accurately reflect how you view yourself, and your practice?

All of it. Every bit of that.

Do you use found objects?

No. It’s important to me that I make everything by hand. So, it depends on the found objects. If I wanted to embellish something with raw diamonds, or a meteorite, that would be something I’d use that I did not make.

Why is it so important that you make every element that goes into your composition?

There’s this idea that I’m cheating if I don’t make every single thing on there. I’m sort of a purist. But there’s more to it. Everything I feel — energy, vibration — goes into that. There’s so much value in a handmade stitch. Or laboring over a tiny leg of a doll I carved myself. I feel there’s something I’m putting into the piece by doing that. It’s really important to me. There’s so much alchemy in that.

You’re your own art supply store.

I go to art supply stores. I need paint. I need brushes. There are a lot of things that I’ll find there that I will use: google eyes, because they’re funny to me. [Generally speaking] I don’t like something that’s fresh and new. I want my hand involved in every bit of [the creation].

What draws you to this work?

It’s some sort of pathology, no doubt. It’s something that I absolutely have to do, and a lot of it has to do with repeating objects, putting things in a row. I have this thing about lining things up and repeating a pattern over and over and over. I don’t want to put a negative slant on it, but there’s some sort of obsessive quality to it, but that’s part of the Outsider artist label, which makes me an Outsider artist as opposed to a folk artist.

Did you receive any formal training in visual art? 

No.

What kind of work did you did before you threw yourself body and soul into your practice?

I have a hard time being and staying employed. It’s random stuff. There’s not one thing that I did. I would do the thing until I couldn’t stand it anymore and move onto other things.

How long have you been focused on your practice as your primary activity?

Twenty-five years ago, I stopped drinking and doing any kind of drugs, and then it all came out again. I’ve always been an artist, but I just pushed it away. It wasn’t anything I ever considered doing as a job until I sobered up. I thought I’d be a tattoo artist. The first thing I did was put together drawings of some tattoo [designs] I was going to take into a tattoo parlor, and then it became a painting, and then I brought it into a gallery [the now-defunct Watermelon Sugar Gallery in downtown Traverse City, Michigan], and it sold. I started doing more and more and more, and I haven’t stopped since.

Describe your studio/workspace. 

It’s my bedroom, with a big architect’s table in it. I also have an outside area — a woodworking area — that I don’t paint in. I do a lot of assembly work there.

Are you a hand tool or a power tool gal?

I like Dremels. If I’m carving, I’ll use hand tools, but for the finer, detail work, I’ll use a Dremel tool. It saves my body.

What themes/ideas are the focus of your work?

That’s tough. Sometimes it’s a visual image I want to repeat, a pattern or a shape. A lot of times it’s a feeling I want to get out. Sometimes it’s a straight-up inspiration: I get a picture in my head I need to reproduce, and that’s easy, and fun, and I love it when that happens. That’s a field day. But when this is your job, you can’t wait for that. I want to keep my hands moving at something every single day. Lately, I think: What can I make for somebody that they will love, that will be very special? And then, with that, something just happens. My hands tell me what I want to do: Do I want to paint? Carve? Hammer nails? Push clay around?

What part or parts of the world find their way into your work?

I’m very inspired by the city, and I don’t live in the city anymore. I’m in my own little bubble here. I’m not influenced by what’s going on in the outside, but I was — very much — when I lived in the city. Chicago, for instance. Very inspired by the grittiness. Landscapes don’t inspire me. Nothing inspires me. It’s all coming from the inside.

You talked about the city’s “grittiness.” Is it a vibe?

It’s a vibe, for sure. It seems like there is a certain patina that’s found in an urban environment that’s not seen here on a regular basis. It feels like when I walk down the street I can look at the side of the of a building, and see a pattern, a patina, that’s been sitting there forever; the side of a wall with old stenciling on it, or an old window. I just don’t see the same thing here that much. There’s an edginess to a city that’s not here. This place is very pristine, very clean, and clear, and fresh. But I love it here.

What’s your favorite tool?

Sand paper. It adds so much life. It changes things profoundly, in a way that is very satisfying.

Sketchbook? Art journal? Do you use anything like that to make notes and record thoughts about your work?

Rarely. If I’ve got a commission, I have to write down ideas, for sure. That takes research and homework, which I write it down, and make lists. Sometimes, if I get an idea, I’ll write it down, but I don’t do a lot of that.

Your work is deeply hand-built with lots of moving parts and mechanical novelties. Talk a little bit about how you make your work?

I guess it depends on what I’m making. There’s so many different types of things I make, but I’ll say this: Oftentimes, unfortunately and inconveniently, I’ll have something made, and then I’ll get a new, how-about-this? idea, and then I’ll have to back up. I have to almost create my work backwards. I don’t have it planned out in my head. I’ll make something, let’s say it’s a horse that I’ve already stuck onto a board, and I’ll say, Wouldn’t this be cool if it were mechanical and could move? So now, I have to figure out a way to engineer that without removing the horse from the board, or ruining it. It’s all backwards, and makes it very difficult. I’m often having to carve around things, or paint underneath things, and I can’t mess it up.

Do you know when to stop?

Yes. Definitely.

There’s nothing ambiguous about that? You know when you know.

Right. But so much of the work just creates itself. I start with something, and then it starts creating itself, and I go, I wish I’d known this sooner before I’d screwed it all together.

Why is making-by-hand important to you?

It’s very fun. It’s also challenging. I love the challenge of excruciating work that requires hand-eye coordination of a surgeon. The tinier, the more articulated, the more I have to struggle to make this thing work — that’s really, really satisfying to me. The process of hand work is very satisfying. It would not even be interesting to take something I’d found, and stick it on a board. I have to do something with it. And, once I think it’s done, I’ll find something else to take [the process] even further and further. How far can I go with this? How much unnecessary work can I put into this? How hard can I make this for myself?

I like that you give yourself permission to go back in and work on a piece after it’s “finished,” even after the piece is affixed to the substrate.

Oh absolutely. There’s no “breaking” it. I made it in the first place. I can always fix it, and any kind of fix or repair just adds to it.

That’s very freeing.

I look at these things [on which] I’ve spent a lot of time, and think, It’s just not special enough. It’s just not interesting enough. It could be better or more. So now I’ve got to wreck everything I’ve done by doing something outrageous to it, and it always works out for the better. It is very freeing. I’m always glad I did it. I’ve never been sorry when I’ve “wrecked” something that wasn’t really speaking to me.

I think about that as the gateway to more interesting ideas that are just waiting to be birthed.

One-hundred percent true. That’s how I figured out my process, how I figured out what I like, by making mistakes and wrecking things. I did a painting once. It was enormous, and I hated it. So I took it outside, sprayed it with a hose. I took a brick to it, and had a tantrum. I ripped it apart into tiny, little pieces, and then I used all the tiny, little pieces as mosaics to create a whole new image. It was amazing, and so much fun.

Why does working with our hands remain valuable and vital to modern life?

This is such an important question: It’s how you access the soul. It’s a way to authentically connect with people. It’s such an important avenue. It’s utterly meaningFUL as opposed to something being meaningLESS. It’s everything. It’s a way to keep things alive, and vital energy flowing in the world.

Anyone who looks at your work can’t help but understand that it’s intensively hand built. Does it take people by surprise? Are people estranged enough from handwork, in our modern times, that they find your work a mystery? Or an amazement? What’s the perception?

It’s assumed that [her work is made of] found objects. They’re not. I have to say that many times. I get that a lot from people. They seem to be amazed that I’ve made all these little things.

What role does social media play in your practice?

I use Facebook a lot. And, I’ll put pieces of art on it, which sometimes sell. I like Facebook. It’s a social outlet for me. I’m home. Alone. I don’t know that I use it for [inspiration for] my work. I feel like the art is coming from something inside of me. It would behoove me to promote my work more on social media a lot better than I do. I should have a website. I should have an Instagram. I should be promoting my work all over for financial gain. I have no interest in that. But the owner of the gallery [Shanny Brooke of Higher Art Gallery in Traverse City, which represents Jil] does, so I’m happy that she does that.

Talk about why you don’t have a website.

It’s not what I want to do. I’m not interested in being a businesswoman. I’m not good at it. It doesn’t speak to me. Marketing doesn’t interest me. That’s a whole other job. I sell my work through galleries, and they get half of my money, but they’re doing all that stuff for me. And Shanny has a beautiful website.

What do you believe is the visual artist’s role in the world?

Depends on the visual artist. There are millions of answers to that. Some people have a message to send. Some people are political. Some people want to change the world with their ideas. Some people want to share love. Some people want to entertain.

You seem very clear on that.

I am.

How do you think you get so clear? Is it all that quiet time alone?

I’ll tell you why: I want to have a great life. I want to live to the fullest, and that means being authentic, and that means knowing who you are. That’s my priority, every day, all the time.

How does living in Northern Michigan inform and influence your creative practice?

I don’t know that it has anything to do with living in Northern Michigan. I would be the same no matter where I was living.

How long have you lived here?

I don’t know. Thirty years?

Did you know anyone, when you were growing up, who had a serious creative practice? Somebody you’d consider to be a role model.

Both grandfathers. One grandfather did beautiful landscapes with oil paints. Self-taught. The other grandfather did some painting, but he sewed clothing for his children. He had another job. He was a pastor, so [painting] was a side hobby. My father was an opera singer, it was his full-time job. He sang all over the world. My father was instrumental in helping me navigate, psychologically, what it means to be an artist, that struggle, how it’s OK, and how you came out on the other side. It was difficult for my father. He was married, and he had a full-time job at Avon, and a family, and a house in the suburbs [Glenview, Illinois], and children, and a wife not loving that he wanted to quit the full-time job to go be an opera singer.

Who has had the greatest and most lasting influence on your work and practice?

I want to say God. That’s my answer. Either that, or it’s my mother. My mom was always pushing me to be an artist, as a job. She was very supportive, and enormously encouraging. The God answer: “God” is a generic term for some sort of universal energy that flows through me, and inspires me.

Where or to whom do you go when you need honest feedback about your work?

I don’t need feedback. I know if it’s good.

Have you always had that level of confidence about your work?

Yes.

And when people come up to you and say, “You should …”, you think what?

Sometimes it’s a good idea, but otherwise I’m polite and accept they have an idea. It doesn’t happen very often. If I get a “you should,” it’s usually about doing a better job of promoting myself. It’s never about the work. It gets me every time because they’re right. I know who I am, so it’s OK. I can’t produce a lot of these things. It takes so long. I don’t think I could have a bigger business. If I had a website, I don’t think I could keep up with the work.

In some ways, exhibiting is a form of marketing. How does exhibiting your work fit into your practice?

This is my job, so if I want to sell it, I have to exhibit it somewhere. It’s very practical. The work is not for me. I never want to keep any of it. It clearly has to go out somewhere. That’s what it’s supposed to do.

How do you feed/fuel/nurture your creativity?

You know the book The Artist’s Way? The “artist’s dates” — where you take yourself out somewhere, and walk around deliberately looking for inspiration. I haven’t done it a lot lately. I know what’s going to sell in the gallery, and I make those things. Inspiration hits. I don’t have to work that hard to come up with something new. I already have something I know will sell, and I enjoy making those things. Anymore, I just go with the flow, and don’t sweat it too much. I don’t have to work so hard, and try so hard. There are other, easier magic tricks. If want to be inspired, I can sit and do a little mediation about being open to some new inspirations, and boom: it happens.

What drives your impulse to make?

There’s a practical answer, and that’s: money. There’s an obsession: I have to do this. But then, there is something more artistic: the desire to create something really, really beautiful. That’s the artist’s answer: I’m feeling something inside, and wanting to put it out there because it’s going to be beautiful.

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Jil Johnson is represented by Higher Art Gallery in Traverse City, Michigan. Directly experience Jil’s work there.

Sarah Bearup-Neal develops and curates Glen Arbor Arts Center exhibitions. She maintains a studio practice focused on fiber and collage.

 

 

 

Traverse City painter Katherine Corden, 33, has “a short attention span when it comes to [her] painting.” Hard to believe given the extensive, practical evidence of her steady focus: on her process, her making, and the many ways she lets the world know about it. In depicting her favorite subjects — groups of people gathered, long undulating roads — her approach is to favor gesture, light, and color, then leave the rest to the viewer’s imagination.

This interview was conducted in November 2024 by Sarah Bearup-Neal, GAAC Gallery Manager, and edited for clarity.

Pictured: Katherine Corden

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Describe the medium in which you work.

Right now I primarily work in acrylic paint on wood panels. My work occasionally will embrace mixed-media elements, so I’ll use pencil, charcoal, pastels — often on top of my acrylic paint. I frequently paint in gouache. And something I’m hoping to experiment with this year is oil painting. Always trying new things.

Why oil paint?

I have a very short attention span when it comes to my painting. I just want to continue moving onto the next phase of it — in that way, acrylic is really nice because it dries so quickly. In the way I want to embrace a looser depiction of my figures or subjects, I think oil paint has those softer edges I’m looking for. Also, oil paint colors have a more intense vibrancy to them. It’s hard to achieve that in acrylic paint. It’ll be an experiment. We’ll see.

Do you need someone to help guide you through the basics of oil painting? Or, have you had some experience with it?

I’ve had a little experience with it. One of my studio mates, Alyssa Smith, had an oil painting workshop in our studio last year that I attended. It’s nice to have friends I can [ask questions of]. The daunting thing about oil paint is it is more hazardous, and you want to make sure you’re using the right materials to minimize your toxic exposure.

Where’s your studio?

In downtown Traverse City [Michigan], at the Tru Fit Trouser Building. I feel so lucky to have found that space. I found it shortly after we’d moved here [from Wisconsin] in 2019. I’d been going to Vada Color to get print reproductions of my work, and VADA Color is located in the Tru Fit campus. I met Eric Gerstner, who owns and renovated the building. The old Habitat For Humanity ReStore was moving out, and he had this enormous space available. That was way too much space — I think it was about 9,000 square feet. I told [Eric] what I was looking for, and we came up with breaking up the space into a casual studio set up — our walls don’t go up to the ceiling so we can talk with each other across the wall.

In your November 14 blog post you wrote: “Like most of my paintings, the photos in this folder are from scenes found in my life (often mundane, but occasionally novel, for me at least …)” Talk about that a little bit.

I’m not unique in that I draw a lot of inspiration from my personal life. Today, we’re so lucky because we constantly have a camera with us, in our smart phone. Living in Northern Michigan, I feel lucky that we spend a lot of our time outside. What I gravitate toward, and what I’m most known for, are my beach paintings. I spend a lot of time on the beach in the summer, and feel lucky to do that. On the beach you have this perfect set-up — if you enjoy painting figures, which I do — that creates a still life for you. The sand is a neutral backdrop, you have this amazing light source with nothing obstructing it, and you get these interesting shadow shapes created on the uneven [surface of] the sand. I’m very inspired when I’m at the beach. It’s usually just people sitting on towels, or talking to each other, or shaking a towel out. I find the movement and the change in light and the patterns [cast] by everything you bring with you to the beach to be really interesting — both from a color theory standpoint because you have all these interesting colors and values going on; and from a composition standpoint because you have people sitting down and standing up, and there’s not really any other time in your day-to-day life that you’ll find that many figures [in the same place] unless you’re at life-drawing class. I used to live in Chicago, and I’d sketch people sitting on the L train; but at the beach you’re lucky that most people are in their swimsuits. You get really good light on the bare figure.

That is closer to the life-drawing context.

Yes. There’s not so many layers of clothing [at the beach]. It’s the perfect place to be looking at the figure if that’s what you’re interested in. Lately, I’m trying to explore some of those concepts of color and light; I’m taking a break from the figure. I’m looking at buildings [and other artifacts of contemporary life].

In your November 21 blog post, you featured a painting that is going to be hung at Farm Club in Traverse City. That painting is a good example of what you’re saying about reducing the elements of your painting to shape, and color.

That’s something I’m always working on. I haven’t arrived there yet by any means: I enjoy the process of painting so much that it’s hard for me to step away. What I probably need to be doing is to work on multiple pieces [simultaneously] so I can take a break, and let something breathe, then come back and reassess it.

One of the distinguishing characteristics of the figures you paint is that, facially, there’s no information: no eyes, there’s a shape of a nose, of a mouth; but for all intents and purposes, the face is a blank canvas. When you remove those things, you’re asking the viewer to pay more attention to other things. Your figures’ gestures give the viewer a lot of information. In one of your paintings, Extended Family, a figure is standing, and there’s a connection between her and another figure, and that said a lot. Talk about the absence of information in the face.

I’ve talked to so many people about this because it’s a common comment people make. Everybody has a different take on it. This isn’t why I’m intentionally leaving the face out of it; but a lot of people have connected with my work because it is easier for them to imagine that they might be one of the people [in the painting]. I [also] think about how the gestures are really telling the story. When I’m just figure drawing with charcoal my favorite kind of figure drawing is gesture drawing. I love trying to quickly capture the essence of the person in the gesture. I find the looseness of

that to be a little bit mysterious. Something I’m more interested in than the anatomy is the colors I’m using. I’m trying to create more of a story with color. The intent is not to get distracted by details. Something I’m always trying to challenge myself with is: How can I achieve what I’m trying to achieve with less detail? It’s a tricky thing. I’m always trying to edit. I’ve heard this from writers before, and it sounds awful: You have to kill your babies. You have to be willing to get rid of your best line in your story, or your best mark in your painting in order to move the piece forward. Sometimes you get so hung up on a detail you thought was so brilliant, and then the rest of your painting suffers as you work around it trying to make this one detail work. If you look at my work up close, you’ll see there are a lot of layers, which I end up liking. I often will be figuring out my final composition, [then] end up painting over an entire section of work because it’s too much. It’s like taking off jewelry before you leave the house.

What makes the figure a compelling subject for you?

I’ve always been fascinated with the figure and human anatomy — perhaps this also explains the pull to my first career as a physical therapist. I really enjoy the challenge the figure offers the artist: always changing, never the same. Finally achieving a likeness of line and weight is so satisfying. I love the release of quick gesture drawing and also the meditation that comes with longer painted portraits. It is a fantastic canvas to explore color and light, two things I find endless inspiration in.

Did you receive any formal training in visual art? 

I grew up with a mom who is an art teacher. From an early age I was exposed to art class, and art work, and we had lots of art in our home. I’m grateful I went through a public school system [in Grosse Pointe, Michigan] that had really fabulous art teachers. I graduated from high school in 2009. In 2008, when I was applying to colleges, I was fearful of applying to art school. I grew up in a community where there weren’t a lot of role models that would have shown me what a career in the arts would look like. I had my mom, who was an art teacher, telling me that it would be hard to get a job as an art teacher. Between my own fear and the adults around me, I thought I’d just continue to do art as a hobby, and study something else. I ended up going to the University of Michigan, and became a physical therapist, which I did for six years. When I graduated from physical therapy school, I started painting again. Obviously, I didn’t have a family yet, and I didn’t have to study anymore, so I had time to do what I wanted to do after I came home from work. I started sharing my paintings on social media. I made a website. It was fun, and I made some extra money. It worked out that Chicago — where I went to grad school — had a lot of art resources and programs to attend in the evenings. I met some other cool, young women who had started their own careers — it was the first time I’d met people who didn’t have traditional careers, and that really opened my eyes. I continued to work as a physical therapist, and paint in my free time, for a long time before I felt confident enough to stop my work as a therapist.

What was the light bulb that went on in your head that told you to leave physical therapy behind, and jump into this other thing?

One of the blessing of working as a physical therapist is that it’s very flexible. [Kathryn moved with her new husband, also a physical therapist, to Wisconsin and began to work part-time.] I knew we weren’t going to be living in Wisconsin forever, so I told myself I was going to take the next year to really figure out if I want to really do this art thing. Am I capable of doing this as a career and generate a living from it? I invested in teaching myself how to run a business, and that was daunting. I didn’t have any education in how to run a business. I joined some online communities that were teaching just that. It was an impactful year. We moved to Traverse City [and she worked part-time at Munson Hospital]. I covered maternity leaves, and worked [in her studio] on the weekends. We didn’t have any kids yet, and I found the [Tru Fit] studio. I was making enough money from my art; but I was fearful of letting go all the work I’d done to become a physical therapist. Having kids helped. It was clear it didn’t make sense to be doing all of these things. I slowly took less and less hours at the hospital, and painting more and more. My last day of work as a physical therapist was in 2022.

How unusual is it, amongst the people with whom you hang, that you’re not just artists but you’re also small business owners?

That’s a good question. Most of my friends understand because they followed my work, and it’s something I talk about fairly often — the business side of my work, my job. I find when I meet new people [it’s a challenge] to describe what I do. An artist friend gave me a piece of advice. When she tells people what she does, she says that she owns a small art business, and she’s the artist.

I think that’s indicative of how few people have an understanding of creative work. We all know what a dentist looks like, and how that work works. I wonder, though, if the perception of  people who do creative work is that they sit around and wait for a lightning bolt to hit, then there’s a frenzy of activity, and at the of it — wah lah! — there’s a masterpiece — when what creative people are doing is work. A job.

That was honestly one of the hard things during my transition from physical therapy, was telling people that I’m an artist. “Physical therapy” is an easy answer, and then you can move on. When you tell people you’re an artist, they go, Huh? One of the things I’ve had to practice doing is trying not to imagine what their thoughts are, that they’re thinking I’m so privileged that I can just paint all day and not have to worry about making money; but I don’t know what they’re thinking, and it’s none of my business. If they have questions, I’m always happy to answer them.  The dentist’s office is a perfect example. A dentist’s office was the first place I ever told someone I was an artist. It’s a very low-stakes place where [the hygienist or dentist] is making small talk with you, and I decided that I was just going to go ahead and see what happened. They are usually so interested in [her answer] because it’s so different from what they do.

Let’s talk about the business end of the work you do.

With my work, I have to think ahead an entire year. I do work with several galleries [in Northern Michigan, and Alabama]; but I have a good-sized audience and quite a few subscribers on my email list, so I’m able to represent myself. The thing I found challenging about working with galleries is that you need to have a steady supply of work, inventory. I am often able to sell pieces on my own, through my website, which is preferable because I get to keep 100 percent of the proceeds. I also have had shows at my studio in Traverse City; but most of my sales have come through my website. As my kids [ages 4 and 2] get older, and I’m able to produce a larger volume of work, I’d love to work with more galleries to extend the reach of my work, and find new audiences. The other part of my business is I license work in a couple different ways: through a couple online galleries that curate reproduction work by artists; and then, recently, I licensed my work for a book cover, which was a big dream of mine. It comes out in January.

Talk about one of the bigger projects you undertook in 2024.

The mural is at Bryant Park in Traverse City. It’s on the restroom building, a good-sized brick building [16’ x 30’], and I painted three sides of it. I was chosen through the Traverse City Arts Commission. A friend of mine sent me the application. She knew the building was on the beach, and I paint a lot of beach scenes. And, it also just happens to be two blocks from our house. The idea I pitched was I wanted to make a beach scene that appears as though you’re  looking through the building. You’d see the horizon line in the background; but the focus of the painting would be the people who frequent the beach. There are little kids playing, and bigger kids tossing their towels, adults in the background skipping stones or walking. The fun thing about a mural is that there couldn’t be a lot of details; it would be too much work at that scale. That forced me to edit. I used a limited color palette, which was a fun challenge — I was trying to re-purpose the same Sherwin Williams color as well as for someone else’s face. The colors are very much inspired by the color seen at the park.

And you’ve done how many murals on the sides of buildings?

That was my first and only mural.

Having it be a much larger “canvas,” but a canvas that’s three sided, how do you take what you know about painting and transpose it to the surface and that format?

A lot of my paintings on wood panel are larger. A common size is 36” x 48”. For the mural, I used a strategy I’ve used before. I created a grid [on the source sketch], and then gridded out the mural with sidewalk chalk, and then I took it square-by-square and enlarged the image.

What’s your favorite tool?

My spray bottle. I’m constantly spraying down my palette [with water]. This is one of the reason why I think I’ll like working with oil: I like a fluid consistency with the paint. I also use a palette scraper I couldn’t live without.

Do you use a sketch book?

I do use a sketch book. I haven’t been able to travel; but when I do travel I love bringing a sketch book with me. It’s a great way to do a little plein air work. I have brought my sketch book with me to the beach before; but in this phase of my life I’m at the beach with toddlers. I need to make the time to get to the beach by myself.

When you’re at the beach — or, wherever — are you more inclined to use your camera to record an idea?

Yes. I think if I was by myself I’d use a sketch book; but right now it’s so much faster for me to use my camera, and then I can put my camera away and be in the moment with my family.

How does social media fit into your practice?

Social media is a tool for marketing my work, and connecting with people who are interested in my work, connecting with other artists, connecting with businesses that might want to work with me. It’s both a networking tool, and a marketing tool. I also find myself inspired by by all the artists locally and around the world who share their work on social media. I think that social media has so many terrible things about it; but one of the nice things is if you’re looking for inspiration, you have access to people you’ve never heard of. In terms of pursuing this career, I’ve been motivated  by watching other artists flourish on social media — either because I’ve become friends with them, or they’ve been a role model; you can watch them and see how they’re doing it.

How does living in Northern Michigan inform and influence your creative work?

As I’ve mentioned: painting the beaches here. It informs my subject matter in a lot of ways. The community up here has been very supportive, mostly because there are so many people I’ve met who are around my age, who are doing similar work. That’s the real-life version of what I was describing on social media. There are people who I’m becoming friends with, and people who work in my studio with me who are artists, or writers, or making music. A lot of people who live up here work for themselves — there’s not a lot of industry — and that has been encouraging, that support and network of people who can help each other, answer questions, motivate each other, inspire each other. Hopefully, the area is getting recognized for that, and people are supporting the artists up here, because there’s a growing number of them.

Who has had the greatest and most lasting influence on your work and practice?

I don’t know if I can pinpoint a single person. Because of the expansiveness that the online community gives you, I think there have been a lot of women, who are older than me from around the country, who have done really impressive things with their career that inspire me. Sarah Madiera Day from Maine. There are a bunch of artists from South Carolina who taking their work to levels I don’t think people thought were possible. And, one of my mentors, Emily Jeffords had a big impact on me. Many of these people are moms, which has become more and more important to me. I look to other working moms to figure out how they do it. Often it feels more and more challenging to balance everything. I have a good collection of books. I love looking at the work of Fairfield Porter, Matisse, Richard Dibenkorn. I just got a book by Josef Albers. He’s been inspiring me to focus more on color, and see where that takes me.

Where or to whom do you go when you need honest feedback about your work?

Because my mom is an art teacher, I always feel good asking her questions. She gives me honest feedback, and it feels like a very safe space because she’s my mom. My good friend Brianne Farley has a studio in the [Tru Fit Trouser] building, and we’ve been working next to each other since 2020. She has given me good feedback. Our work is very different. I’m a large-scale painter and she’s a children’s book illustrator, but she did go to grad school in art. I have a group of three girlfriends who are artists, living in different states, and we meet on Zoom about once a month. We critique each other’s work, and talk about what we’re struggling with — any business or art thing we’re going through. We have a text thread, and that’s very valuable.

Sisterhood is very powerful in your practice. You have a whole range of female people who are friends and mentors, and they all feed into your practice in one way or another. Is that intentional?

I don’t think it’s intentional; but one of the big, big blessings of my life is I’ve always found really good girlfriends; from a young age, I’ve had really good girlfriends. I think I’m just naturally trained to seek their help when I need it. That also has been a theme in my work in the past, too. A couple years ago I did a collection where I asked a bunch of my friends here to meet up at Farm Club. I took photos of them having drinks together, sitting and talking to each other. I used those photos as reference photos for paintings. The collection was titled Fika, which is a Scandinavian term for enjoying a drink or treat with someone without distraction. You’re fully present, enjoying that time together. We were trying to tell a story of female friendship, and being present, and the importance of that.

What do you believe is the visual artist’s role in the world?

I just went to a talk last week with Kate Korrock, and we talked a lot about this at the discussion [November 13 Caffeinated Conversations program sponsored by the Northwest Michigan Arts and Culture Network]. One of my takeaways is there are so many purposes art can have, and to limit art to having one purpose would be such a disservice to the practice and expression of it all. There’s a place for having art that makes people uncomfortable, and questioning their beliefs, wanting to explore new topics. I think art has a powerful way of helping people escape, or feel grounded, or calm. In general, [at the November 13 program] we talked a lot about how art helps us make sense of the world around us, that it’s a reflection of the world through that artist’s lens. But then the viewer is interpreting the art through their own life experience.

Is the maker’s role in the world to be a provocateur, or a storyteller, or a bringer of beauty?

One of the nice things about living in the time we do, all of the above is needed. I think it’s important for museums and larger communities or cities or people who are going to be investors in the arts to sponsor or encourage more provocative art. In terms of having an artist producing purely provocative art would require that the artist be privileged. You’re running a small business, so you constantly trying to balance your perspective with: How am I going to make a living from this work? How am I going to make artwork that I enjoy, and I think other people will put in their homes? As [one’s] career grows, and [one has] more security and feel more loyalty from a wider base of collector, then [the artist] has more privileges and freedom to explore more provocative work. It’s important to have beautiful work that people can escape into; but people need all different types of art.

How do you feed/fuel/nurture your creativity?

Something I’ve found really important is exercising, and getting outside to exercise. That helps everything in my life, and it definitely helps my creativity. My preferred form of exercise is probably going on a run, which I’m not always able to do. When I’m running or on a walk outside is when I’ll get ideas, and have more energy to execute said ideas.

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Read more about Katherine Corden here.

Sarah Bearup-Neal develops and curates Glen Arbor Arts Center exhibitions. She maintains a studio practice focused on fiber and collage.

 

 

Jan Johnson Doerfer, 73, feels better when she is creating, when she can go down to the beach and watch the water, or connect with the birds, or add to a collection of sticks that are “art waiting to be made.” Creative work has been a constant thread throughout her adult life. Now, this enduring and driving passion is Jan’s primary focus.

This interview was conducted in October 2024 by Sarah Bearup-Neal, GAAC Gallery Manager, and edited for clarity.

Pictured: Jan Johnson Doerfer

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Describe the medium in which you work.

I started out primarily painting with watercolor; but then I got into working with pastel. Nowadays, I do some acrylic painting, some watercolor. Plus, I like to work with wood. I’ve got a huge collection of pieces of wood, sticks I’ve collected over the years from various places in the woods, or on the beach, wherever I find them — they are waiting to be made into art.

Is there anything particular about the wood you find in the wild that appeals to you?

I’m very inspired by nature. So, I’m always looking at natural things, whether it be wood, stones, bird feathers. I’m always looking around for interesting items when I’m out walking.

You started with watercolor, and then you began to explore and work in other media. Is there any particular reason why?

I started with watercolor because I love the transparency of it; but I think what happened, over time, was I started exploring other mediums to see what they do. I still love watercolor; but it’s very challenging. You have to put it down and get it right. You can’t erase it, or cover it over — it starts getting muddy. It’s very spontaneous. For that reason, I do like other media that give you a chance to play, to paint over it, adapt it, modify.

 Did you receive any formal training in visual art? 

I have not had a whole lot of formal training. I’ve always considered myself an artist. I’ve always loved drawing and painting. When I got into high school, there were four art teachers on the staff, and an extensive art program. I focused on that — until I was a senior. I had the head of the department as my teacher, and he totally turned me off of art, which was really sad. He had a certain way he wanted things done, and would not allow for [his students their] own creativity, exploration, experimentation. I wondered why I would want to [go to art school] and have someone telling me how to do art? So, I went to college [Miami of Ohio in the early 1970s] and became an English major instead. When I was a senior [in college], I did take a life drawing class and loved it; but at that point, I’d already committed to being an English major. As I began my life as an adult, I was still drawn to art, and started taking different workshops and classes. I lived in Ohio for a while, I had two little kids, and I lived in a small rural town [Waldo, Ohio] where I didn’t know anyone. It was difficult. I discovered a woman in Columbus, Ohio, who had been a teacher [at Ohio State University], who was doing a weekly workshop in painting out of her home. I joined her group. For many years, I ended up going weekly to that two-hour session, and I loved it. She’d start the class by showing work by various artists, different painting techniques. I learned a lot from her. When I moved to Suttons Bay, I took a pastel class from a woman in Traverse City, in her home. I also did a workshop with Suzanne Wilson [who helped found the Glen Arbor Art Association, now Glen Arbor Arts Center] in plein air painting. It was fabulous. And, that has been my training.

I’m interested that you began to ferret out teachers when you needed to learn something. Talk about that.

What’s the expression? When the need arises, the teacher comes. In certain periods of my life, I’ve been very open to the belief that art was really important to me, and I needed to focus on it. At those points, I would seek out — and I can’t remember how I found some of these teachers — and find something that would stimulate me. I do need motivation, and classes are a wonderful way to do that. With classes, you have an assignment. When I’m working on my own, everything else gets in the way: I need to go to the store and get groceries, go out and do something in the garden. That’s something I’ve struggled with all my life. How do you give [your creative practice] the time and importance its due?

In 1981 you began a card shop, and your work was the centerpiece of that business.

When I was doing the class in Columbus, I became interested in silk screen printing, and asked the instructor where I could learn silk screening. She set up a small seminar with another teacher [who worked in silk screen printing]. And I became very entranced with that. So, I decided I was going to get some silk screen supplies, and I was going to make some cards. I wanted to do something I could sell. I needed to make some money with my art. I was a stay-at-home mom, my husband was working, and I really wanted to do something that would make some money for me. I designed 10 different Christmas card designs … [and printed] 50 cards of each design. This was at the beginning of Autumn. I went to Columbus, to several little galleries and gift shops on the day after Thanksgiving. People laughed at me, and told me they’d bought their Christmas cards in June. But they looked at them, and I ended up selling all of them. I began to figure out how that business works. I started that in 1981. [In 1986, Jan and her family moved to Suttons Bay, and opened a card shop there called Loon Art Designs.] I ended up getting divorced in 1994; but my ex-husband and I kept the business going for two or three years after that. I was ready to move onto other things. The card company grew where I couldn’t do my own silk screening. Eventually I found a sheltered workshop [in Ohio] for people with disabilities. I taught them the whole process. Then a commercial silk screen company that had primarily done logos on hats and shirts for sport teams began producing my cards.

One of the things I find interesting about this story is that size doesn’t matter; you just needed to be making. Because of your life circumstances, you started small, with a card; but you were doing creative work. At the same time, you were learning about the business side of doing creative work. It suggests that developing a practice can start with anything and anywhere.

Creative work extends to so many other things. Cooking is creative. Gardening is creative. Decorating your home is creative. After Loon Art closed in 1985, I started writing. I decided I wanted to write and illustrate children’s books. I wrote a first draft of a young adult novel; but I never got it published. I wrote another book, I See A Bird!, and I self-published it. It started with my granddaughters, one of whom was very interested in birds, and she was only 2. I would make up poems about the birds we were seeing, and recite them to her. I decided to a kids book about birds would be interesting, so I just did it. Birds are one of my passions.

 Describe your studio.

It’s a little room that’s the third bedroom in our house. It’s small; but I’ve got it set up just with the stuff I love. At times I wish I had a big studio where you can be really messy with stacks of canvases all over the place; but this works for me.

What themes/ideas are the focus of your work?

Birds are a big thing. Water. Natural things, mostly.

You exhibited two works in the GAAC’s Shrines + Altars show that are mixed media, and combine 2D and 3D. How often do your works migrate between 2D and 3D?

Three D[imension] is something that’s fairly new for me to be doing. I love it, and will be doing more of it in the future. I have this collection of sticks, and they’re in the breezeway [of her home]. My husband has asked me, so many times, What are you going to do with all these sticks? Can we get rid of them? No. We can’t. When I did the two pieces [for the Shrines + Altars exhibit], I said, See. This is why I have all these sticks. It’s art waiting to be made.

What’s your favorite tool?

A good paint brush. I love the feel of the right brush in my hand. The whole thing: the weight of it, the bristles, the way it moves paint across the surface.

What tools do you use to make notes and record thoughts about your work?

Nothing fancy. Notebooks. Scraps of paper. Sketchbooks. At times I think why can’t I be organized about keeping this stuff together. I’ll be looking at something, and come upon doodles, or little sketches I made, which I’ve forgotten all about. One thing I use a lot now is Pinterest. When I see something I really love, I have an art folder on Pinterest, and I can save it there.

When did you commit to working with serious intent? What were the circumstances?

When I started the greeting card company. The circumstances were that I was very isolated. I was living in an environment that didn’t feed my soul. I didn’t have any close friends, and I had two little children at home. I really wanted to allow my soul to expand, to be able to do what I needed to do to feel a sense of who I am. Now that I’ve retired, suddenly I have this time I’m free to use for exploring art, and creating. It’s a wonderful thing to have. So much of my life has been filled with other responsibilities. [Jan said that most of her adult work life has been spent with books — in books stores and municipal and school/college libraries.]

How hard has it been throughout the years to create the space and time and space you need to do your practice?

I’ve struggled with my feeling of commitment to taking care of others and being there for them; and what time and space I need for myself. [Both of her husbands] have been very supportive. I’m lucky in that regard. I haven’t had someone saying, What! You didn’t clean the house today! But it’s that inner sense, that I have to take care of the things I have to take care of that is the obstacle for me. As a child, I didn’t grow up in a family, with parents who said, How can we support your artistic inclinations? I wonder what would have happened if they’d said to me, Hey! You want to go take a class at the art institute this summer? I wasn’t the kind to say I want to do this. I was a nice girl. My dad was an electrical engineer, so he wasn’t geared toward art. My mom was a housewife and felt that women weren’t meant to be doing other things. I think: If only I’d had more support; but we have what we have, and manage somehow, and maybe it creates strength.

What role does social media play in your practice?

Very little. When I made the bird book I created a website. I thought I’d do a blog; but it all sort of petered out. I don’t have a social media presence.

What do you believe is the visual artist’s/creative practitioner’s role in the world?

To create beauty, or controversy, or make us think beyond the mere appearance of things. The artist is here to help us expand our vision. To go beyond the norm.

What parts of the world find their way into your work? We know that sticks do.

“Spirituality” is a broad term; but my understanding of spiritually, I want that to be incorporated into my work. Along with nature, of course. Nature is my spirituality. Over time, some of the social issues — climate change, how really horrible the future looks, how we really ought to be paying more attention — I would like to do more with that so that people will think about it a little more.

You lived for a time in Colorado, and that caused you to want to return to the Midwest to live, to be closer to water. How does living in Northern Michigan inform and influence your creative practice?

It’s hard to narrow it down. Everything about it. The water. The quality of the water. The different colors and textures of it. The way the waves are moving. We live very close to the [Grand Traverse] bay, and I can just walk down to the beach to be able to see what the waves are doing today. and how many rocks have moved onto shore today, and what are the patterns in the sand, and what has washed up on shore. Also, the cloud formations, and the colors of the sunset at times. Driving from [her home] to Glen Arbor, and seeing the trees, and the colors of the leaves, and the hillsides, and the textures of the fields and the trees and the orchards: It’s just wonderful. We live in a really special place.

Who has had the greatest and most lasting influence on your work and practice?

The people and teachers I’ve encountered in the various workshops I’ve taken. The painting teacher in Columbus: She opened up my mind, and exposed me to a lot of famous artists, and different types of work, and just being able to talk about other people. I appreciate her mentoring.

Where or to whom do you go when you need honest feedback about your work?

I wish I had a group of artist friends to get together with. I share with my friends, in general. And my husband is interested in what I’m working on, will ask questions, and give me some feedback.

What is the role of exhibiting in your practice?

Not very much. I was thrilled to be part of the GAAC’s Shrines + Altars exhibit. I’m not interested in selling stuff anymore. I like the idea of sharing, and having people see my work. I don’t want to feel a pressure that I have to make something great.

What drives your impulse to make?

It’s innate. I just feel better when I’m creating. If I’m not creating, I get kind of depressed and feel low energy. It enlivens me.

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Sarah Bearup-Neal develops and curates Glen Arbor Arts Center exhibitions. She maintains a studio practice focused on fiber and collage.

Deep Wood Press is situated on four acres in Antrim County, surrounded by 450 acres of land under the protection and stewardship of the Michigan Nature Association. This is Chad Pastotnik’s home, backyard, place of work, and shelter from the storm of contemporary life. This maker of hand-built, hand-crafted fine press books, age 56, bought the property in 1992, built a book bindery, and began creating a life and vocation focused on making beautiful things. “Nobody knows who I am in the region,” he said. But in the arcane world of fine press books, it’s another story.

This interview was conducted in October 2024 by Sarah Bearup-Neal, GAAC Gallery Manager, and edited for clarity.

Pictured: Chad Pastotnik

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Describe the medium in which you work. What is your work?

Private press books. The medium encompasses several disciplines: printmaking, bookbinding, designer bindings; the graphic arts of layout and design, and planning such things as books. It’s all done in-house, here [Deep Wood Press]. The type is cast on my linotype machine, in a separate building; brought over, proofed, corrected, printed onto fine, handmade papers from around the world, or specially made for the project at hand; the inclusion of original artwork; and then onto the bindery here. Basically, the only things that aren’t done here are making the paper and skinning the goats: That’s the primary leather we use for fine bindings. It’s traditional. Goat or calf [skin] are often used.

Is this a one-person operation? Or, do you have people who work with you?

It’s primarily me. I do take apprentices and students on occasion. On Tuesday, I have three of my former students and apprentices showing up to sew 60 copies of a book.

In your cosmos, is creating 60 books a big project?

It’s medium. My editions top out at 100 [books] these days. That’s primarily to expedite things. The bindery is the slowest process. Just staying under a certain number of books keeps me moving onto the next one.

Could you define what a fine press book is.

In modern meaning, it probably has its origins with the Arts and Crafts Movement. They brought back beautiful objects, and books were one of those things. Printing had become pretty well automated at that point, and book design was suffering greatly. Some interested individuals began promoting books beautiful once again, and presenting these kinds of editions — mostly classics on beautiful paper and well designed. So that tradition has carried forward into the 21st Century; but letterpress printing is no longer a viable, commercial entity, supplanted by computers and offset printing, and ink jet on-demand. Now it has become an even more specialized form of making books. I make books using pretty much the same practices as they did 150 years ago, and, essentially, the same forms as 500 years ago. Not much has changed here at Deep Wood.

I would imagine that when a fine press book is created, it’s usually not something like a Nancy Drew mystery; that the contents between the two covers have some special qualities, or are precious for some reason. Talk about that.

All the books I do speak to me in some way. Some of the books are definitely produced with some commercial ideas. All the books I do are on speculation. I don’t do much commission work. So if I commit two years of my life to a project, I have to have a pretty good idea that it’s going to sell. At the same time, for some of the smaller projects, I take on regional writers who aren’t necessarily known outside of my markets; but I still make the book because it has more meaning for me than a financial concern; the books I’ve done with Mike Delp, Jerry Dennis and Anne-Marie Oomen are all pure speculation. Most of my books are sold out pretty quickly, and they go to private collections around the world. As much as I love my regional writer friends, they’re not necessarily known outside of Michigan, the Midwest. So, name recognition with a book I’m pitching in England goes a long way. I’m at that happy point now where if I make it, they generally buy it.

Why do you think that’s true?

I’ve been doing this for 30 years, and I’m pretty good at it. I’m just lucky, I guess.

I can’t imagine there’s a lot of you doing fine press books.

Not a lot, no. I probably know most of them. We have a series of shows around the world that a lot of us travel to, giving the special and private collections people an opportunity to come to one place and do the hands-on thing. It’s an interesting group of people. There’s a lot of craft-centric parts to [bookmaking], so there’s a lot of people on that end. [On the other end of the spectrum] the book arts are now purely conceptual, and there are a lot of objects that sort of resemble a book.

When, and how, were you first introduced to this discipline?

Probably as an undergrad. I went to Grand Valley. And, [in the late 1980s] my professor [Delles Henke] had come from the University of Iowa, which has a long tradition of books arts. [Henke] showed us a couple of books he had done; but I wasn’t particularly interested in fine press then; The bookbinding part really intrigued me. At the time, I was doing really small engravings in copper, and they lent themselves to the book form. It wasn’t I until I got to be a better bookbinder that I wanted to introduce words. I found an old printer who was closing up shop on the northwest side of Grand Rapids, and he taught me some basics.

What draws you to the creation of fine press books?

I like being unique. There aren’t too many people who do it. I love the process — I’m a total junky for the process, the history, everything about books. The typefaces. The equipment. It’s the ultimate vehicle for information — or was for millennia. It’s all just beautiful. And the possibilities are unlimited. I could live five lifetimes, and still have things to learn.

What formal training did you have, specifically, for creating a fine press book?

None. I’ve done plenty of workshops through the Guild of Bookworkers, which is a national organization. So, if I want to learn a certain binding style, or leather tool technique, I can take a workshop. On the letterpress end of things, I did find myself in Iowa, not in a degree capacity; but I became friends with the people who were teaching the books arts there. Basically, I got a free education just for showing up. I got educated; but in indirect ways.

Describe your studio/work space you occupy.

There are 1 1/2 buildings devoted to it. The big intaglio press, and the typecasting are in a building 50 feet from here. The main studio is a building in two parts: half is the press room, the other half is the bindery, my office. It’s just full of stuff. In the early 90s, when I built the bindery part of the studio, print shops were giving away all the old letterpress stuff. They were making way for the new Xerox color printers and other things. Most of the stuff I got was free, for the cost of moving. It was the perfect time to get into letterpress because I was able to secure so much of this valuable equipment for little or nothing, and mostly from the region. The linotype machine came from Charlevoix where it used to make ballots, and newspapers. The only equipment I brought from a distance was a Little Giant [printing press] from a Carmelite Monastery in New Jersey.

I wonder if some of the people from whom you obtained your equipment scratched their heads and wondered, What’s up with this guy? He wants this old hunk of metal?

Certainly. The linotype machine guy said he’d deliver it to make sure he could get it out of his building.

Who typically comes to you wanting you to create a hand-printed, hand-bound book? And why?

Most of them are totally ignorant of the process. They don’t understand the costs involved. The other end of that spectrum is someone who does understand, and is still very interested in having their work produced. I’m finishing up a commission job at the moment. It’s 60 books, and it’s [the customer’s] second, fine press book. He’s got no wife, no kids, so he wants this to be his legacy. I don’t usually take this kind of commission work; but [the customer] was an exception. And, of course, anything Glenn [Wolff] and Jerry [Dennis] bring to me is instantly considered because it’s just so much fun.

People’s understanding of how books are created is now defined by different forces. You can push a button now, and have Amazon create, on-demand, 100 books in no time. Does that kind of understanding follow people when they come to you? 

Even when you do books on-demand, you have to use their tools to do a little bit of formatting. I think there’s a big disconnect — I see this with a lot of young graphic designers; they don’t understand the process after it leaves their screen.

What’s your favorite tool?

Maybe my Vandercook press. There’s so little I ever need to do to it. It always gives me the results I’m looking for.

What tools do you use to make notes and record thoughts about your work?

I wish I were more organized; but usually it’s whatever scrap of paper is conveniently near. I’m organized enough that all those notes make it into one folder for each project — both for my own benefit, and I have places approaching me for my archive. I want things to make sense down the road.

Is this a personal archive? Or has the Smithsonian come knocking on your door?

U of M [University of Michigan].

Do they want your papers? And stuff?

Yes.

Did they tell you why?

I’m a Michigan Cultural Asset [a designation that comes out of the Michigan State University Michigan Traditional Arts Program.]

That must have blown your mind.

It’s nice to be recognized. I grew up in Cadillac. I’ve lived in Michigan my entire life; but nobody knows who I am in the region. Michigan’s institutions do collect me, so I’m grateful for that.

How often, in this day and age, are people recognized for doing hand work?

There’s the Traditional Arts Program at Michigan State. It’s geared toward craft — basketweaving, native dance, traditional instrument making; but they did award me a grant [in 2016]. Fine press books is one of those things that happily transcends both art and craft, or are equally represented in the end result.

When did you commit to working with serious intent? What were the circumstances?

Pretty much right away, when I bought the property and built the studio in 1992, and immediately began filling it with presses. That’s when I put the shingle out. A lot of the early work wasn’t fine books, but wedding invitations, and corporate print jobs. Soul-crushing work. They paid the bills. You pay your dues.

What made that work soul crushing?

Inevitably, working with people who don’t understand the process. Trying to make everybody happy. It wasn’t creative in any way. I was just a printer. I was also trying to sell my own art work; but at that time I was trying to sell locally. Engravings don’t sell very well in Northern Michigan. Not my stuff anyway. Focusing on book forms is what ultimately got me on the track I’m on. There aren’t any book shows in Michigan, so that forced me to go outside the state, and start taking workshops, and teaching.

What role does social media play in your practice?

I wish more; but I’m terrible at that stuff. My partner, Madeline, is the one who comes into the studio and takes pictures. Yes. I’m on Facebook, but I’m there for the friends’ kids. I don’t look at that stuff. I know it’s a powerful tool; but I guess, if I were hungrier, I’d exploit those tools more.

What do you believe is the visual artist’s role in the world?

I think the role of the visual artist is probably a purely selfish one. I think the role is just to make [the work]. That’s about it. It’s somebody else’s role to interpret it.

Not everyone agrees that the arts are an important part of being human, so the arts get scattershot support. You’re not turning out 2,500 widgets every day. You’re doing work that doesn’t necessarily yield a huge presence on the world. You’re living back in the woods in obscurity, and yet you have the audacity to think you should be doing, and you are entitled to do, creative work. With all that, how do you think about your role in the world as a visual practitioner?

I have a hard time with the commercial, established “fine art” world. Having achieved success [on his own terms, the fine art world] is a crock of shit. It really is. Most people don’t understand the processes anymore. That generation of people are dying, who grew up understanding this work. I struggle with this. I have a peer group, and I’m considered the socialist of the group. I’m the one who’s welcoming in the new people, trying to organize dinners, and group accommodations. That doesn’t go over well with the establishment sometimes, where they want to pick and choose who’s coming up.

To what degree do you feel that the creative work you do makes the world a better place?

The books are exquisite, if I do say so myself. A recent edition I did of The Winds In The Willows — I’d argue that that’s a book everybody should read. It’s not a kid’s book. And, our edition is exquisite. This is a book that will be around in 500 years; probably longer if taken care of. That’s a legacy. Books are something that tend to stick around. There’s more than one copy, so there’s a chance there’ll be a copy somewhere, in some collection, at some point. To whatever value that will have for the person pulling it from the stacks in 100 years, who knows? Each book I make — the subject matter and treatment — can vary widely. My collectors do appreciate the fact each book is a new exploration of a different process I know well. Keeping it fresh is important to me, as well. If I did the same thing for each book, it would no longer be art. That’s the fun part, coming up with the ideas, the artwork, and the design.

How does living in Northern Michigan inform and influence your creative practice?

A lot of my books have to do with the natural world. Trees. Conservation. Water. Trout. Growing up and living in Northern Michigan has defined the work I do, and the projects I choose. The potential projects on the horizon — the Jim Harrison stuff, some more Hemingway perhaps — it’s all Michigania, the exploded version.

Did you know anyone, when you were growing up, who had a serious creative practice?

Not really. We had a good work ethic [in his family]. We were always helping somebody build a house. There was always a project at hand; but no musicians or artists to influence that kind of creative direction. From the time I was a kid, I knew that was what I wanted to do.

Why is making by hand important to you?

The craft aspect of the books, and in all art, has been neglected for 60 – 80 years in American art movements. I don’t think you can have successful art without successful craft. Craft just means you know your process, your materials, and you have a deft hand. I can show somebody how to make a book; but that’s just superficial — it’s just a blank book without contents. Right now, the emphasis in a lot of the arts is conceptual. It has a lot less to do with craft. It’s all about the idea part of it. As I alluded, the book arts have embraced that. You’re at a show, and the guy next to you has cranked out a book in a week on the ink jet [printer], and it’s selling for the same price point as something I’ve spent two years doing.

Your process is a hand process, and by design, it’s slow, it’s deliberate, it’s mindful. Why has it not been crushed by a world that is obsessed by speed?

Because books, whether or not you read them, are still revered by a lot of people. There is an undeniable history there that has shaped our world. Books are part of the public consciousness. In my case, it’s unique to make books the way that it used to be done, and I think people still value that. When they see the physical object, when they handle the book, and feel the materials, and see the presentation, it evokes a completely different reaction than you’d experience opening up a modern book in a book store. To open a book is intentional. Unlike a painting on the wall, the book is there on the shelf or the table, and to engage with it, you have to engage and use at least three of your senses to make that happen. I can’t imagine a world without books.

Do you have a library card?

Of course. Three. Two, local village cards, and one for the Traverse City library.

How do you feed and nurture your creativity?

That’s easy. I walk out the backdoor, and there’s every reason to be here in Northern Michigan. That’s one reason. The other end of it: I get to travel a fair amount now for work. My partner and I have a home in Avignon, in Provence, and I’m active with a foundation [the Foundation Louis Jou] over there. I get to see a lot of books, art, and beautiful places. I filter out the bad stuff, and keep all the good. Louis Jou is private press practitioner. In his lifetime, he produced 140 books, 90 of which were done on his iron hand presses, which I’ve now restored over there. My main connection with Jou is that he designed his own typefaces, which are exquisite. His studio was turned into a foundation, and I’m on that board, creating awareness of Louis Jou. I do projects when I’m over there, and bring in people to teach wood engraving, linocuts.

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Read more about Chad Pastotnik here.

Sarah Bearup-Neal develops and curates Glen Arbor Arts Center exhibitions. She maintains a studio practice focused on fiber and collage.